Into the Aether: The 23rd Hunger Games
by Cocobeetles
Summary: A ruined city underground, with no way up, and one way down.
1. Chapter 1

**Ivory Millefiori **

Mentor, District One

Victor of the 9th Hunger Games

I'm tempted to stay till someone notices, but I never get the chance. Tulle swishes through the otherwise silent night; she huffs, and puffs, and it isn't long before she's snagged somewhere. What follows is a stifled squeak, and a litany of not so stifled swears. If Syrah were looking for me; no, Syrah would never come looking for me. No sounds like the sounds I'm hearing right now have ever come out of her mouth. No sounds have _ever_ come out of Syrah's mouth – none that I've heard, anyway. Not since her games. I spent the lead up to mine biting my lip when she rolled her eyes at me, and dodging dinner rolls flung at my head for biting my lip, I assume. Either that, or she really doesn't like dinner rolls. And/or, she really doesn't like me.

_Thwack._

_Thwack._

_Thwack._

Tiny fists slam into the dense trunk of a particularly unlucky tree – whoever it is mustn't know I'm here. I use the din to stand up and dust myself off. I guess that's the way back then. I silently weave my way through the undergrowth, careful to keep the sobbing behind me, and it's not long before I pop up on the path I started on. This time, it'll take me to the party. Her party.

I'm sure there'll be plenty of dinner rolls.

* * *

><p><strong>Mint Catalan<strong>

Mentor, District Two

Victor of the 12th Hunger Games

Striker thinks she's ready, but I'm not so sure. The boy we decided on easily enough; Lich is eighteen, he's ready, and he wants this. The girl however, she's a little too delicate. I think, so I say. That's sort of how I roll. I appreciate this, and I value it in others; these beliefs and values dictate my behaviour. Striker likes to think he's very much the same, but he's treading on eggshells here, like he always does. He watched my games when he was young enough to be horrified, and old enough to remember why. I'm still waiting for him to get over it.

The girl, Finial, is probably best in her class. She's outright deadly with staff and spear, but she's also decent in hand-to-hand combat, and happens to be relatively intelligent. I stretch, and re-position myself on the table in Striker's kitchen. Am I mad that she's pretty? Could I be mad that she's really, really pretty? The wax from the candle between us is spilling out and over the plate it's sat upon, and I jab it with my index finger as he readies himself to defend her.

"She's not like us", he offers. I mull this over as he gently tugs the candle out of my reach. I have to say, I sort of expected more. I flip my hair to the side and smile. It's not the noblest move, but hey, he winces, and I like that.

"How exactly, is Finial Spire special, Striker?"

"She's scared"

Finial Spire it is.

* * *

><p><strong>Dalton Boyle<strong>

Mentor, District Three

Victor of the 10th Hunger Games

Flag tidies up my bedroom, and we don't talk. We're especially talented at not talking, the two of us. But if we weren't, if we weren't so gifted, what would we say? He's twelve, I'm twenty-seven. He's not old enough to work in a factory, and his brothers won't let him take out any tesserae, so he's here. He tidies, and I pay him. I should mention at some point that I asked him if he wanted to work for me; we did have a conversation once. My hands stop, knotted up in my bright red hair; is that the last time I had a conversation with someone? It can't be. It can't be, but it is. That makes it five months since I last walked into town.

I give up on my hair, and reach for a glass of water on my bedside table. He's in the doorway now, a grey satchel full of greyer rags cutting into his bony shoulder, eyes too green for the district frozen on my shirt, or what's under my shirt – I forgot to button it up before turning. I wrap it around my body and fold my arms; hasty, but honestly, he doesn't need to see what the boy from Seven did to me. I don't need to see what the boy from Seven did to me – but I don't get a say there. I huff, tug the covers up, and rub my forehead with both hands; I feel a headache coming on.

"Good luck, today" I grumble.

Flag looks up at me, and for a second I'm not so sure fifteen years stand between us. It feels like more; it feels further, and darker, and harder to navigate. Flag mercifully smiles, and walks away.

It could be his name read out today.

* * *

><p><strong>Fife Baitwell<strong>

Mentor, District Four

Victor of the 20th Hunger Games

Berm's head pops up as I'm doing the dishes, and the window's open, so I do what any self respecting Baitwell would: I throw the sponge in his face. He's Berm - so he laughs, picks it up, and puts it on the ledge between us. As I reach across the sink to take it back, he covers my hand with his own. I know I'm bright red, but I also know – you guessed it, he's _Berm_, so I let him linger a second longer than I should before wriggling away.

"You have to do the dishes?"

_Splosh._

"On Reaping Day?"

_Splosh._

Berm's sweet, and funny, and I don't mind this, honestly I don't, but I have no idea how to make him understand I need this day to be as regular as it possibly can be; I have to do the things I do every other day. I have to pretend there's time; I have to pretend there's lots and lots of time left before I have to go back.

I dry my hands on my apron, and untie my hair. Big mistake. Berm reaches out, slow enough for me to stop him – why don't I stop him? My brow furrows at the problem I can't solve, but melts away as soon as his hand starts combing through the hair behind my ear. At some point, I close my eyes.

"Go get dressed, Berm"

Berm lets go.

"Go get dressed, Fife"

I want to go, I do, but I know the second I turn my back there'll be a wet sponge smacking into it. That's why I'm still standing here – why we're both still looking at each other. He smiles, and I'm smiling too. It's only now I notice there's heather in my hair; it definitely wasn't there before.

"Don't get chosen, ok?"

I run up the stairs before he has a chance to reply.

* * *

><p><strong>Jasper Bowen<strong>

Mentor, District Five

Victor of the 2nd Hunger Games

Plume's been trying to get Mesa up _his way_ for half an hour now. He snaps his head up as the seventh floorboard past the lintel creaks; it took him way too long to realise I'm here. All he has to show for his efforts are a drooling Mesa, face down on her favourite purple pillow, and a few dozen peanut shells scattered in a halo round her head.

"Did you eat any of them, Plume?"

"All of them" he grins.

"Well ok then"

I turn to leave, but stop at the door. I need to remember this. They'll be twelve next year.

"Start phase two" I command, and close the door behind me.

I linger a little to catch his response.

All I hear are giggles, then a high-pitched scream, and a thump.

"Tephra! The kids are up!"

* * *

><p><strong>Axis Fuller<strong>

Mentor, District Six

Victor of the 8th Hunger Games

_They'll die in the bloodbath._

_They'll die in the bloodbath._

_They'll die in the bloodbath._

It's the same every Reaping Day. Each year I hear it; I hear it over and over till they follow through. They're either too small, or too scared, or both, and they die. I groan and let my forehead bang against the shower wall. The water is warm, and sweet smelling, and I should be happy. I should be so happy, for all of this – but they never win. They never come home. I'm District Six's only Victor, and I anticipate it staying that way for a while. I got lucky; I outlasted the rest, and after the girl from Four fell to the boy from Nine in the finale, all I had to do was sneak up behind him and push him over the cliff. One kill; I made it through my games with only one kill.

I should be happy.

But I can't remember his name.

* * *

><p><strong>Willow Rise<strong>

Mentor, District Seven

Victor of the 17th Hunger Games

No one talks – not to me, anyway. My hair is white and my dress is white and maybe I should stop wearing those contacts they ship in from The Capitol. Maybe I should stand out _more_; maybe then they'd have to say something. I know I'll never fit in – I knew that all the years I didn't get picked, all the years before I did; why did I think winning would change anything?

The baker smiles, and goes back to his work. The grocer smiles, and goes back to his work. The butcher, the postmaster, the kids playing marbles in the street under the shadow of scarlet banners announcing another Games – they all smile, and get back to what they were doing before I swept through.

It's enough that they notice me, I think. It's enough that they smile. My victory granted them more oil, and more grain, and life for a little while wasn't so hard. They remember that, and they smile. I killed my district partner on the first day, and they remember that too.

* * *

><p><strong>Kain Brocatelle<strong>

Mentor, District Eight

Victor of the 13th Hunger Games

I shove my notebook into my back pocket when I see her; it doesn't fit, and loose pages scatter in the dust between us. Yeah, that's about right. Show her how together you are, you know, by chasing yellow scribble filled pages stamped with tea and jam stains through the city centre. You're so good at this.

I exhale, and squat to pick up a bunch that made it easy by sticking together. I should throw them out. I should really, throw them all out. My post-win hobby is meant to be weaving, not poetry. I don't publish, and I don't share with my friends, or family, so the point is?

"You're so good at this" she exhales.

It's sweet, and honest, and why did she say that? Oh god, oh god no, she got to a page before I did.

I pull at the edges of my vest with my free hand; I do that a lot. Pull at edges of things hoping they'll somehow do my bidding, and hide me when I want to be hidden. I feel exposed, like I'm coming apart, and she's smiling. She's smiling and it's too hard to look at full on, so I scale down a few feet and ask for it back. Her shoes are soft; I can tell they're soft – she's worn them a lot. Both laces are black, but one has a green feather tied to it. Where did she find a green feather? She's not wearing any socks, and I can see a couple of inches of caramel skin - _her_ caramel skin, and I had better get this over with because I'm spending way too much time committing every detail to memory and eventually she's going to notice.

"Please, Velvet?"

The clock strikes ten before she can reply. Shit, I should make my way to the stage. I brush past her and start jogging to the justice building. Before I disappear through the crowd I hear -

"I'll just keep this then, ok?"

Ok.

* * *

><p><strong>Gene Durum<strong>

Mentor, District Nine

Victor of the 4th Hunger Games

Some of the boys in the eighteens look decent enough; some but not many, and none will ever volunteer. Maybe One and Two have it right, I think, as I fish a wilted cigarette out of my blazer pocket. Maybe we _should_ harvest the kids that show the most promise and encourage them to choose this for themselves. Maybe there's power in _choosing_ this. Maybe then they'd have a chance.

"Looking for something?"

Amaranth; it has to be Amaranth.

She titters in delight, and steps out of the shadows. Her top lip is scrunched up to give my lighter a better ledge to balance on while she gets the taunting out of her system.

"You're disgusting, you know"

"And sneaky; you're forgetting sneaky, Gene"

"You do realise I can light a fire just fine without that, right?"

"Ok lefty, show me what you've got"

What I've got is a stump where my left forearm should begin, courtesy of the boy from Ten. Technically, it's sort of my fault too; I turned down the Capitol's offer of a bionic replacement. It would have made life easier, and while I'm not about to admit it to anyone, deep down I don't think life _should_ be easy for me.

That shouldn't be my prize.

We step out into the sunlight as she threads the fingers of her left hand through the fingers of my right.

I shoot her a look that says 'later', and resign myself to hating this.

* * *

><p><strong>Calyx Wagner<strong>

Mentor, District Ten

Victor of the 18th Hunger Games

Cassia practices from cue cards she's clutching for dear life, and I mime in time; my head is perched on her shoulder, and she smells good – really good: apples, and orchids, and opium? I sort of want to nibble on her neck, but that would distract her; I _hope_ that would distract her. If I did it properly, it should, but I've never had a chance to try. Well, I've had plenty of chances, but I've never, you know, had the guts. Now would be as good a time as any, but they're out there, and right now, I wish it were her holding me. I wish, but it can't be. Mayor Graft is in bed sick, and his daughter, Cassia, is acting in his stead; it's her first time, and she's scared. I'm not going to make this about me – not today.

I take a deep breath, and pull away to look out into the sea of faces from our hiding spot behind the shoddy stage. Farina's there, somewhere in the eighteens. She's probably wearing her blue dress, the one with the daisies on the collar. She's worn it for three years now, I think. It's probably too short, and too tight under the arms. I'd give her one of the dozen my stylists left with me, but to do that, I'd have to talk to her, and to talk to her, I'd have to be near her – I can't see that happening. Her too small, too tight dress is blue like the sky; blue like her eyes. Somewhere, out there, she's pulling at a loose thread, wrapping it around a shaking finger, and tugging it so tight it hurts. Hurting reminds us that we're here. We're all still here.

And we're scared.

* * *

><p><strong>Ray Floret<strong>

Mentor, District Eleven

Victor of the 5th Hunger Games

The commentators called her the Angel of Death. I called her Heirloom. The boy from Six just about ran into her on the second day, and she swiped the sickle he'd somehow managed to steal from the Cornucopia, or another tribute – I can't remember. He was twelve, and looked it. He would have been an easy kill, but Heirloom let him be. She dissolved into the thick foliage moments before the Career chasing Six barrelled through with a sword in each hand. You'd think it would have been easy work, but Heirloom had to finish the job.

She killed the boy from Six, she killed the girl from Three; she killed the girl from Nine and the boy from Ten. Heirloom killed a lot of people, but none of them brought her home. I killed a lot of people too, and I think the same goes for me.

I twist my golden handkerchief in my hands. I want to hurt something. I want to _be_ hurt. I – I don't know what I want.

The escort is wearing wings this year. They're magenta; that's a word I learned in the Capitol. They're magenta, and they might be attached to her back - I'm not sure. I swipe a feather with one hand as I fan my handkerchief in my blazer pocket with the other. She doesn't feel it, so maybe they're just for show after all. I'm about to stuff it in my pocket when I hear a muffled cry to my left. One of the eighteens is pregnant. I cough, to get her attention, and cup my hands to blow the feather her way.

Heirloom was eighteen.

And Heirloom died.

* * *

><p><strong>Clover Shortwall<strong>

Mentor, District Twelve

Victor of the 22nd Hunger Games

Peregrine jabs me in the ribs with the baton she uses to intonate, and I sit up straight in my golden chair. She jabs me again and I scowl at her. Oh – that's right. I'm supposed to be happy.

There are more children in the square this year, I realise - more because of me, and the gifts my victory brought the district. None of them look healthy, sure, but they're still here - grey and terrified, but here. Some are my friends.

One is my brother.

Slate is in the fifteens. He's shorter than the boys around him; he's short like me. There's no way I'd be able to find him if I tried to, but I can guess what I'd see if I did.

His pants are brown, and belted. They don't have any holes, or tears – they aren't fraying, and they finish where they should: they're not too short, and they're not too long. This is important. The year before last he had to borrow a pair of dad's old work pants, and a peacekeeper broke his arm with his baton for the shame he brought the district. We'd folded them over and over at the cuff and secured them with some old electrical tape, but they rolled down on the journey into town, and were dirtied. We didn't patch the hole in the ceiling that year so we could buy him another pair. They were grey, like everything else here, but they fit him well enough. It rained for four months straight.

Today is the day Slate wears what might be the only discernible colour in the crowd. His shirt is blue, bright blue, and that's the thought I hold onto as I smile for the cameras.

Peregrine waves her baton, the jewel at its head turns red, and we're live.


	2. Chapter 2

**Ivory Millefiori**

Mentor, District 1

Victor of the 9th Hunger Games

Sobol hunted in complete darkness. A very rich man with a very big hard on for the strong and silent type sponsored him night vision goggles on the third day. His hideout was by the river, _the_ river – the only water source in the arena. He dropped down on them from above, and smothered six tributes with his sleeping bag; there were no weapons in the cornucopia that year – the last two tributes standing other than Sobol were both from Three.

"You look terrible, Ivory" is of course, the first thing that comes out of Opal's mouth in greeting.

Sobol and I share a look as I take my seat on the stage; I want to hit the pregnant woman – but I shouldn't hit a pregnant woman.

"And you're incandescent as always, Opal"

She does look radiant, it's true, but I can't help but inject as much sarcasm as possible into our every exchange; Opal coated five daggers with poison from plants found in her arena. She didn't directly benefit from the kindness of sponsors, and as such, was subject to fewer _negotiations_ than the rest of us.

She also would have been on the train today instead of me – but we have Sobol to thank for that.

Marc joins us to Opal's left; he's wearing his emerald suit – the one he likes the look of himself in. The one _everyone_ likes the look of himself in. Sobol and I really don't stand a chance; Marc's the best looking one on this stage, and he knows it. I'm not saying he's without talent, but part of his success is owed to the girls from Two and Four; that alliance carried him through to the end, with just enough time to show once and for all who among them he loved best: that would be Marc.

"Ladies" he bows, kissing Opal's hand in greeting, and giving the two of us a wink out of one heavily made-up eye.

He stumbles still bent over when Syrah storms the stage.

Every cloud has its silver lining.

The escort is almost derailed by the tragedy of Marc unbecoming, but somehow manages to introduce the Mayor, who begins his speech – the same one he's recited the nine years he's been in office here. I take the opportunity to risk a glance at Syrah. She looks stern, but then again, she always looks stern, so that's no cause for alarm. She's wearing a deep crimson coat that disappears into black tendrils that swirl around her knees, and black hunting boots laced up higher than that. Her hair is gold, but white has been coming through these past few years; she has it swept up in a knot on the top of her head – she looks nice; stern, but nice.

She crosses her legs and shoots me a glance that says 'you're done looking', and I snap my head back to the escort, who has reappeared, ecstatic for her moment in the spotlight to begin.

At least I didn't bite my lip.

* * *

><p><strong>Carnelian Cameo<strong>

Male Tribute, District 1

He didn't know that Nam had won when he died; Ebony finished the girl from Two, and collapsed against the cornucopia crying – he thought he was the last one standing. He was tired, and dirty, and he was happy – I had never in my life _seen_ Ebony happy, but it didn't last. Nam ran a current through the cornucopia constantly wet from a never-ending downpour; it worked pretty well.

Jasper, died in Opal's games. He was the eldest.

I'm the last one of us father will let compete. Agate is going to be a peacekeeper, and I'm secretly grateful. If I can't manage this, there'll still be her. She'll still be here. She's standing in the sixteens now; red hair runs in the family, and like the rest of us, she has hers well tamed. It runs down her back in a tightly wound braid, and threaded through it is Ebony's token: a blue velvet ribbon he took from the cat. Ebony wasn't one for sentiment; his token was hastily shoved in his back pocket on the way to the Reaping seven years ago – but its value has soared now he's gone.

I have Jasper's token. It's probably bad luck, but I want him with me wherever it is I'm headed, in spite of how without utility a rubber stamp of an ostrich is. I play with it now, waiting for the girl to be chosen, and immediately replaced by Collet. The inscription along the side is in a language long lost, but father tells me it says, "I trust in the Lady of Life; let me then live". If Jasper asked her to save him, she mustn't have heard. He took a wound to the thigh on the eighth day; Eleven's sickle cut deep, and the wound festered. He was half mad when his heart stopped beating.

"Ladies first!" trills Circe; I think that's the escort's name - Circe.

My heart rate is soaring, and I clutch the stamp hard in the palm of my hand. It hurts a little, and that helps.

Circe balances on the balls of her feet while she inspects the big silver ball containing the name of every eligible girl in the District. Less theatrical than years past, she pauses for only a moment before choosing a slip on the very top, in the absolute middle.

"Lucia Vickers!" rings out across the square.

A pretty little girl emerges from the thirteens. She's clearly upper class; her dress is ivory – not white, and not grey. She takes a deep shuddering breath and tucks her curly brown hair behind her ears. She's doesn't cry. I think she may be the daughter of a goldsmith in town. She's handling this well; I'm sure he'll be proud.

Circe is beside herself with joy. Confidence, or in its absence, grace, reflects well on the district, and in turn, well on her. She's leaning forward at the top of the stairs, with a hand outstretched for Lucia to take. She's terrifying to behold, I mean, she's blue - but I see the kindness there, and I silently thank her for it.

"Although it's clear we have a splendid tribute here indeed, it is my duty to ask if there are any among you who wish to take dear Lucia's place - are there any volunteers?"

There's a moment, only one before -

"Me. Just me," shrugs Collet. I thought her angle going in would be more, grand? I thought she'd make more of a fuss. But quiet confidence has its advantages too. She'll be less of a target this way.

She makes her way through the seventeens to the front of the stage with ease; the girls have parted to give her a straight path forward. Syrah probably had something to do with that. She's particularly gifted at threatening trainees; it's made more impressive by the fact that she never once has to talk to them to get her way.

Lucia skips down the stairs in a clear struggle to contain her relief. She holds eye contact with Collet for a moment as they meet at the bottom, and then she's gone – swallowed up by the crowd.

"And what is your name, lovely?"

"Collet. Collet Spinel" is said cleanly without embellishment - without even much of a smile.

"Wonderful! Now we have our female tribute, it's on to the boys!"

I can't find Agate in the crowd.

* * *

><p><strong>Collet Spinel<strong>

Female Tribute, District 1

I dyed my hair last night in an attempt to blend in with the other tributes. Blondes are a dime a dozen in One, and in Two; they're sort of a Career staple: blonde, and strong, and deadly. It's grey like soot right now and I hate it – but it's necessary, so Syrah says. Without you know, saying anything at all.

Syrah is blonde (with a little white, sure).

Marc is blonde.

Sobol is blonde.

Ivory's hair is black – I know, hilarious.

Opal's hair is also - you guessed it, blonde.

My game isn't entirely image, but it definitely helps. If I'm overlooked long enough for another tribute to knock off Carnelian, I can make my exit from the Career alliance in the confusion, without the stain of having killed my District partner. Until that time, I'll be using my left hand. It's almost as good as my right, but it's not quite there yet. It'll get me close enough to targets to make the cut in training, but far enough to escape envy from the other Careers, and the attention of bigger outlying alliances, if there are any this year.

I'm counting on Carnelian to shine. With how well his family has done so far, that boy has a lot to make up for; it'll be hard to prove to the audience that he's different than the rest, that he's better. This suits me just fine. Let the pressure be on him. I won't be mediocre forever.

Circe walks over to the silver ball holding the boys names. This time she digs; she digs and she digs, and she swirls one manicured hand around and around until deciding on the boy Carnelian will be replacing.

It's common knowledge in One. You make the grade, and everyone else gets out of your way. No one would mess with Syrah's choices, and to a lesser extent, Ivory's; they sort of come as a pair.

"Ore Ovidius!" she cries.

I know Ore, sort of. He's training for the games; he should be ready the year after next. This will be good practice for him.

Ore is tall for a fifteen; broad and slouched, he walks as if bored by this, and I'm finding it hard not to chuckle. Nice one, Ore. He's stomping up the steps in an effort to make it clear to Circe how terribly inconvenienced he is in this moment. She balks, and blinks, and hurriedly forces a fake smile on her surgically altered face.

"What a strong candidate! Does anyone want to volunteer for Ore?"

"I do!" shouts Carnelian, and he's jogging up to the stage grinning. Good.

Ore to his credit rolls his eyes and slaps Circe's hand off his shoulder on his way back to his friends.

Carnelian, to _his_ credit - and my benefit, is the very image of what a Career should be. He looks genuinely ecstatic to be here. I wonder how long he had to practice that. He's tall, and while slender, is as toned as it's likely possible for him to be. Carnelian runs. He runs, and he throws knives. Not manly, but effective enough. He's also really good at climbing. It's best I don't forget this going in.

I've trained with him.

I have everything I need to beat him.

Or everything I need to let someone beat him for me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Mint Catalan**

Mentor, District Two

Victor of the 12th Hunger Games

King dick Roman leads the way. I follow, with Striker trailing behind me. Roman's _the_ Victor, and not just in Two; he won the very first Hunger Games without a single ally. I don't think anyone actually expected to fight that year; the tributes from Four, Eight, and Eleven sat down on their plates, refusing to move. The rest ran. Roman on the other hand went straight for the Cornucopia. He took out the pacifists with a serrated sword, then packed up some provisions and headed out to hunt the others. It took him a while to track them all down, but it was a good, clean victory. It might be the _only _good, clean victory on record.

Jasper from Five won the 2nd Hunger Games; that year was the year of the Bloodbath. Every tribute was aware of the cost of non-participation, and the prizes that were waiting if they won - no one held anything back. He bludgeoned a few girls to death with a hand-fitting rock, and hasn't been that popular since; not in his District, where killing your District partner is frowned upon, but in ours he's used among our own Victors as an example to follow. Jasper got shit done.

Briella is all over Roman. I huff and my bangs fly up; it's so hot they stay there. Fixing my hair to hide my burns – got to keep those stylists happy, I elbow him out of the way and shoot Briella a look that says, 'really? Again?"

She looks properly chastised and shakes Striker's hand without causing a scene as I pass her on my way to our seats.

"She means well," Roman reminds me.

"She means to eat your face, Roman; I thought you had higher standards – my mistake," I retort, and fold my arms to look out into the crowd.

Lich is easy enough to spot; he's massive, even for an eighteen. His gold hair is slicked down with something that glitters in the sun – way to stand out. His shirt is simple enough: white with two buttons undone – just the right amount of teasing. His friends are taking our choice pretty well, though it's doubtful they'd do anything else to his face; Lich's a little creepy. I can't wait to see how he'll play the game.

"You're still sure about her?" I ask Striker.

"Who else is there that's on par, Mint?"

"Kohle, Esse, and Cheval for a start" I snap.

"We've been over this, Mint. Kohle's agility isn't where it should be, Esse, however talented, is scared to death of her father – he doesn't want his only child competing, and Cheval is seventeen. We can put her forward next year if she still wants this. This is Finial's last chance," he rattles off, a little disinterested in my constant questioning of our decision to nominate Finial. I see that the others have their heads up their arses; I'm aware how helpful a little humility can be. I had some myself, once. I had a lot of things before my Games.

I sigh, and put my hands in my lap so I can pick at my cuticles.

I wish I knew her better; even the people that "know" her don't claim to _know_ her. She's unpredictable, prissy, and sometimes? Sometimes you're talking and she's looking at you like she doesn't see you. It's not frustration, or disinterest, or some kind of ocular defect; we've had her tested. It's - I have no idea what's up with that. I have no idea what's up with her. I'm glad I have Cheval in my pocket. I'm glad for another Hunger Games.

If Lich doesn't win, maybe we'll have better luck next year.

* * *

><p><strong>Lich Bier<strong>

Male Tribute, District Two

It's so bright. I'm trying not to squint in case a camera passes me by, but it's hard. I'm the tallest in our age group; there's no one to use for cover. Martillo offers to shield my eyes with his hands, but I shoot him a look that says, 'are you fucking kidding me?' and he shuffles a couple of inches closer to Acero, who pats him on the back, and offers me a wilted smile. They're so well suited for the Peacekeeper force; I don't think either has ruffled a single feather all their life.

Feathers seem to be all the rage in the Capitol this year. I'm glad Mint and Striker are happy for me to be myself; I don't have to suffer Briella's stifling embrace, and I _won't_ be suffering Briella's stifling embrace. That's not a very Lich thing to do. Roman weathers it pretty well; he's softer than the other trainees are willing to admit. He did what he had to in his Games, but I'm not sure he enjoyed it.

The mayor has spoken without me as audience – I have better things to review, and he's now taking his place on a chair slightly out of line with the Victors. He's a few inches behind, and I'm glad to see it. He _should_ come second on a day like today.

We're loyal in Two, but I make exceptions for brain-dead ornaments.

"Hello citizens of District Two! What a beautiful day for a reaping, am I right?"

A few people feebly clap; one or two loners chance a cheer. She quickly moves on.

"Let's start with the ladies, shall we?"

She shakes her plumage, which doubles as hair, and golden feathers ripple down her back as she totters over to the golden bowl directly to her left. She puts a hand down flat, palm level with the thousands of slips of folded paper. Then she takes a breath, and pushes it down till it disappears in the sheer volume of names. The pieces higher up cascade over her hand, and build back up to her elbow when she pauses. Her hand must clench like a claw because a second later it flies up into the air victorious, scattering the names of lucky girls on the tarnished wooden floor at her feet. Bringing it back down, she squints a moment in the glare, and steps up to the microphone.

"Herminia Brenner!" she bellows.

Herminia is a thin girl from the sixteens. Her hands start to shake, so she shoves them in her pockets as she leaves her section. Her hair is black and ruffled; there are bags under her eyes. The tears start to fall as the climbs the stairs, and I groan.

What a stupid girl. There's no chance she'll be going into the arena.

Brielle gently takes her hand and whispers something in her ear. Herminia hiccups, and stands up a little taller than she has been so far. The tears are drying up.

"Is there anyone out there who would like to take dear Herminia's place?"

"Me! I volunteer!" shouts Finial, but she's not the only one scrabbling for the stage. Another girl in our class is struggling to make her way forward, but she's in the fifteens; she has further to go. Just far enough so her father has the chance to yell and barrel forward, taking her hand and scolding her in full view of the whole District. He'll regret that.

Finial looks over her shoulder at the base of the stairs, searching for Esse probably – seeing if she's still on her heels. Satisfied, or scared that she's got this, she takes the steps slowly, one at a time, and is quickly enveloped by a relieved Brielle who is happy she's got a more promising female tribute to command.

"Marvelous! And what is your name, dear?"

"Finial. Finial Spire," she replies. She doesn't need any encouragement to stand tall; Finial is proud, and she should be. It's no secret she's the girl the Mentors agreed on. That's an achievement in and of itself - I admit that. It's also the last achievement she's going to be able to claim for her own. There's no prize for second place.

Today is the start of something great for me.

For Finial, it's the beginning of the end.

* * *

><p><strong>Finial Spire<strong>

Female Tribute, District Two

Brielle disentangles herself as I pluck a feather from where it's stuck, smack bang in the middle of my forehead. It's pretty, but I let it fall all the same. I don't need it. What I need is for her to get on with this. I settle with wearing a warm smile, and link my hands behind my back. Hurry up.

"And now, it's time to choose a young man!"

It looks like Brielle's sticking with her approach. She places a hand palm down at the line the names reach in the big golden bowl. I think she thinks this choice matters; maybe she has to pretend it does for the sake of everyone watching in the other districts; everyone here knows Lich Bier is heading up there any second now.

"And our male tribute is, Julius Tipica!"

A boy in blue denim work pants and a black sleeveless tee shirt leaves the seventeens and makes his way to the stage swiftly. He's not from the academy; from the look of him he works in one of the technical shops town; maybe a mechanic – he could repair tools, or machines. Why do I care? He'll be gone soon enough.

And so will I.

Brielle gingerly puts a hand on one of his thick sweaty shoulders, and turns to the crowd.

"Is there anyone who wants to volunteer for Mr. Tipica?"

"I do," says Lich; he doesn't need to yell. All his 'friends' part around him. In this moment I'm reminded of little fish keeping a safe distance from a lethal shark. He looks around slowly before making his way to the stage. They'll pay for that if he makes it home. He's the kind of guy that has no problem making people sorry.

"And your name?" enquires Brielle, when he's up and standing next to her; she doesn't dare embrace him – good choice there.

"My name is Lich Bier: soon to be Victor, Lich Bier of District Two" he replies, before turning and leaving her gaping like goldfish as he takes his place beside me. He doesn't look at me once.

Maybe it's ok he thinks he's better.

Maybe then he won't see me coming.


	4. Chapter 4

**Dalton Boyle**

Mentor, District Three

Victor of the 10th Hunger Games

I've never really been one for saying the right thing; I'm sort of abysmally bad at saying anything at all, so I make a show of dusting off Nam's coat backstage. It's black with a high collar, but a gritty District Three wind whips it open, and I see they've lined it with silver – silver arcs of electricity. Sort of not surprised at this point. At least it matches his trousers?

He grabs my hands hard in his when I start fiddling with his silver pocket square.

I look over his left shoulder to the children gathered by age in flimsy wooden pens; they're hip height – chest height or higher for most of them, and someone has taken time to paint them, which is weird. I didn't realise we had any wood to spare. I guess exceptions are made for days like this.

Nam is talking. I only realise because a head of thick black hair replaces my view of the square. I look a little lower. The hair has a face. The face looks tired; Nam's only seventeen though, right?

"They're going to die, Dalton. There's no way they'll let Three win again when I won two years ago. Don't tell me it's going to be ok; don't tell me they have a shot. We can't help them, but in knowing that, maybe we can help each other"

In keeping with tradition, I can't think of a single thing to say in response to that.

"Don't feel bad that I know; I had to figure it out sooner or later, didn't I?"

He brings my hands down by my sides.

"Come on – let's get this over with" and he turns to climb the stairs to the stage. Not a minute ago I was trying to see past him into the crowd, but without Nam here, it's not so easy to face. The eighteens are at the front, but even they are small and thin; a pox swept through the District last spring, and there are fewer children here today than there should be. The ones that made it look as though they didn't quite manage it. Or they did, they have, and are aware now it isn't worthwhile. Flag is somewhere out there, somewhere down the back. I should have said something – something better.

* * *

><p><strong>Snippet Heap <strong>

Female Tribute, District Three

It's Kit's turn. Roped off in the fourteens, we do the only thing we can to pass the time; we pick off bits of hair and fluff from the sweater of the girl in front of us. The goal is to do it without the hair and fluff wearer noticing. If they catch you, you have to stone cold tell them you love them. No hesitation or humour – you've got to sell it.

I'm reaching for the last easy piece when there's a forced cough, and an elbow in my side; I take a step forward to correct my balance, but my hand is on Rosalind's back before I can withdraw it.

"I – " am so glad our escort taps twice on the microphone before I get a chance to finish.

Kit huffs and shoots me a look that says, 'you still owe her a declaration of love, you know' and we all turn to face the front; so unfair. My cheeks are burning, and I lose the Mayor's brief speech, and the start of Algernon's. He's made up in the typical Capitol interpretation of innovation: tiny blue lights twinkle in the muted sunlight; they run along the seams of his slate grey suit. The blue, it's called is Royal I think, and it matches his hair, which this year is a wig of feathers swept to one side over his right eye. Then again, it might be real. You never know with escorts.

"So let's spice things up a little, shall we?"

Algernon sweeps over to the big grey bowl on his right; I guess we're starting with the boys this year. He pauses for a moment to gaze down, and carefully, delicately, takes a slip of paper from the top-most layer.

"Bezel Keen!"

There's a moment of silence as Algernon leans forward excitedly; he's about to say the name again when a very pissed off boy emerges from the fifteens. His hair is brown, his eyes are brown, and his skin is white – no, not white, grey. He turns to look back into the sea of people roped off behind the twelves. They're either too young, or too old – they're safe.

His face softens for a moment; he looks hurt. He looks scared. But Peacekeepers aren't the patient kind, and he's back to angry when they start making their way over to him in an effort to get him up on the stage. He jerks back and sneers, before stomping up towards the stairs through a path made when they part in surprise. He folds his arms and leans over the microphone by Algernon.

"Wish me luck, District Three; though I can't see myself needing it"

That's – different.

* * *

><p><strong>Bezel Keen<strong>

Male Tribute, District Three

He didn't come. He said he'd be there, in case – and he didn't come.

That's it then. The last thing he'll ever have said to me stands forever. He can't take it back, and I can't let him. Even if he could, I _wouldn't_ let him.

That makes this a whole lot easier, I suppose. I can go in hurt, and sad, and scared, and lonely, or I can go in mad. I can go in, be mad, and come home; I'll be here till he dies all alone in that little flat behind the Imaging Laboratories. The cold, bare flat I paid for by working fourteen hours a day in a factory instead of going to school. I'll be here, and he'll make the rent, or he'll die. I won't talk to him, I won't see him, and I won't help.

That's if he makes it that far.

If the Peacekeepers making rounds right now find he's not on the edge of death, he's going to the whipping post. I'm not sure if he'll survive if they give him fourty; I'm not sure he could take ten.

This is easy, this is simple, and this is fine.

_Both_ of us are gone today.

Algernon is doing his best to present me as a contender; I'm just present enough to be irritated, and glad at the attempt.

"Well! It's not often we see such a spirited tribute here in District Three! I wonder if I can't pick out an equally impressive female!"

I'm totally stuck with this image now. I guess there's a kernel of truth there; shouldn't be too hard to maintain.

Algernon goes for a different approach this time. He walks over to the girls bowl with an arm already outstretched, and when he's within reach, he squeezes his eyes shut, and plunges in his hand. A thoroughly creepy smile pops up on his thoroughly creepy face as he pulls out a piece of paper he's happy with.

"Snippet Heap!" he booms.

A small pocket of space is somehow created in the girls jammed into the fourteens. Two girls stand at its centre. The one I'm guessing is Snippet is already crying, while her friend whispers something in her ear. After a few moments, she nods, and with a squeeze of her friend's hand, begins her journey to the stage.

Her hair is blonde, but dirty, and limp. It's swept up like a bird's nest on top of her head, and I get the feeling that a little digging could produce treasures even she had been previously unaware of. Might be good for poison, or hiding sponsor messages from the other kids in her alliance.

With shaking hands she smoothens out her crinkled beige dress, and accepting of the truth that she can't fix it now, that none of this can be fixed, she climbs the stairs to stand beside me.

When she turns to shake my hand I notice one eye is a much paler blue than the other – it's almost grey. She smiles, and I smile back, secretly filing this observation away.

I have a train ride to figure out if she can see out of it; if she can't, all the better for me.

Not so great for Snippet Heap.


	5. Chapter 5

**Fife Baitwell**

Mentor, District Four

Victor of the 20th Hunger Games

I play with the heather at Mags's font door while I wait for her to corral the children and come meet me. Yes, I left it. I left it and I like it. Besides, only Berm will know where it came from – Berm, and probably Mags. I'm wearing a lilac dress because my stylists insist it's the best colour on me; I'm sure they'd know, that's their purpose, after all. It starts off pale by my shoulders, and my thick chestnut hair is in direct contrast, but it gets darker the further it falls; by the time it sits just atop my knees it's a deep purple.

It reminds me of Sohal; how Sohal died.

_Why_, Sohal died.

"Fife! You look gorgeous" beams Mags.

Kanya and Anyu use her greeting to make their great escape. They fly by her one on each side; Kanya is seven, and Anyu is five. They're both dressed in blue, and they both look like Mags. Kanya edges out ahead of Anyu; in the golden morning I can see the red ribbon tucked into the belt of her dress. Anyu makes a desperate grab for it, and Kanya darts away, giggling.

Mags herself is wearing a deep green dress with pressed in creases made to look like waves on the sea. It's subtle, and it makes her soft blue eyes seem bluer somehow - but there's something else there. I reach out a hand to take one of hers, but the look is gone before I can open my mouth to speak.

Another voice makes its way to us from somewhere deep inside the house – probably the kitchen.

"You two get going or you'll be late. I'll round up the kids and see you down there"

Mags rolls her eyes, and the corner of her mouth twitches.

"Hurry up or I'll beat you there"

A proper smile blooms on Mags's face as she takes a loose strand of curly black hair and tucks it back among the other strands swept up in an elaborate braid and fastened with a silver barrette dotted with copper coloured pearls.

"Argus made it"

Mags really doesn't miss a thing.

"Argus did a wonderful job" I gladly offer.

"So did Berm"

She raises her eyebrows in challenge, and when I give none, laughs and strolls down the stairs through the garden and is by the gate by the time I've thought up something worthwhile to say in return.

Anyu runs up to her side to loudly complain of his sister's cheating ways; it comes out in a flurry of words I can barely pull apart and isn't helped by Kanya joining him to shoot down every claim that's made.

Mags shoots me a look that says 'now would be a good time', and I creep up behind them unnoticed. In a flash I have the red ribbon in my hand and this is always the only way they'll team up – indignant and against us.

"You can have this back after the reaping"

And she turns her back, and makes the trek into town.

As I catch up, I see her lovingly fold it in on itself and tuck it in the delicate pocket over her heart.

"Any preferences this year?"

"Anyone but Ophion, pretty much"

The boy I'm sure will volunteer today is as silent as the grave and just as welcoming. Even if someone is foolish enough to challenge him, Ophion is eighteen; he won't be holding anything back.

"That leaves the girls: Clew and Perch"

The bubble of hope that Perch might make it pops when I remember her competition.

Mags shrugs – a clear gesture that hey, I could always mentor Ophion, and I sigh.

"Clew it is" I submit.

* * *

><p><strong>Clew Critias<strong>

Female Tribute, District Four

I am so glad I went with red. There's not another dress quite like mine in the sixteens I'm sharing this dank little pen with – I doubt there's another dress quite like mine in the district. I know of one _similar_, but that belonged to Perch, and not for long. In her possession, it was knee length with little capped sleeves. In my hands, it was transformed into something this year's female tribute will surely shine in.

I start at my feet in high, silver heels, and let my gaze travel up my calves, over my knees, and flex each bronze thigh on full display – soaking up admiration from Adelie and Petrela. We train together, it's true, but for very different reasons.

Fife looks good. Not _great_, but I'll admit – she looks nice. She stares out into the crowd worrying her bottom lip; oh that's right, Berm's out there, isn't he. I stifle a giggle and let my gaze drift to our other Victor, Mags.

She's somehow making conversation with our escort, a man - well, I use the term loosely, clad in a shimmering suit pattered with the junonia shell's spots. I appreciate the thought that's clearly gone into this year's ensemble, but as Cantharis is now more sausage than identifiable body parts, there's no camouflage here or in The Capitol capable of hiding that.

He wipes his glistening forehead on a silken orange kerchief, and makes his way to the microphone, now vacated by our shrivelled up Mayor, shuffling back to his seat in periwinkle slippers.

Not long now, grandpa.

"Such an honour to be among you all again, and on such a beautiful day!"

Adelie and Petrela try taking a hand each into theirs - nope.

"Let's start with the boys, shall we?"

I slap them away and go over my route to the stage again.

_Right, duck, sweep, straight, and_ -

"Tellin Semele!"

My eyes snap up to search the crowd for the kid.

It takes a while to find him; he's at the back, and I think he's hyperventilating.

Get your ass up there, Ophion. This is not a good look for us.

The Prince of Darkness seems to catch on, because he's climbing the steps before Tellin makes it to the front.

Cantharis seems ruffled; I'm loving this. We're supposed to wait until he asks for volunteers, but it's clear he won't be trying that. Not with Ophion.

"And your name - "

"Ophion. Ophion Mors" he replies, eyes locked dead ahead.

_This is it._

_This is it._

_This is it._

I feel ready to burst when the escort yells –

"Great! Now let's pick out a female, shall we?"

I put my right leg ahead of my left, and crouch a bit, ready to take off.

My time in this salty shithole is coming to a close.

* * *

><p><strong>Ophion Mors<strong>

Male Tribute, District Four

I can't see Perch anywhere in the crowd. Either she didn't heed my warnings, or Clew overpowered her. Possibly both.

I run through the list of possible places she's been stashed as the escort waddles over to the big blue bowl full of females eligible to be chosen.

One hammy hand disappears into the pile of slips and a solitary droplet of sweat rolls off the end of his nose to smack against the name he pulls out.

"Buttercup Limpet!"

Clew doesn't wait for the reaped kid any more than I did. She waits for her less.

I see a flash of red streak out from the sixteens and it's not ten seconds before she's on the stage beside me, running a hand through her golden hair and smiling triumphantly.

"My my, such eager Tributes this year!"

The escort is beside himself, eyes locked on Clew's barely covered rear.

She spares him a pitying glance before leaning over to pluck the microphone out of his grasp. It's in her hands by the time he's aware it's left his.

"I'm Clew Critias, District Four's next Victor. Try not to miss me too much, I'll be back soon"

And she blows a kiss to the camera.

God damn it, Perch.


	6. Chapter 6

**Jasper Bowen**

Mentor, District Five

Victor of the 2nd Hunger Games

Plume's the only one that cheers when my name is read; it's shocking that anyone bothered at all, and the Mayor looks up, startled. Allan gets a slightly warmer reception, but to his credit, he's not pleased about it. Sitting next to me, he's never openly pleased about it. I appreciate that. I appreciate Allan.

His arena was the arctic tundra; one of the most brutal, and brief games on record, Allan was crowned three days in. More than half the field was wiped out due to natural causes: some stumbled around and fell down ravines, a couple more dropped all their supplies and ran off nowhere helpful; I think five or more lay down in the snow at varying points and just went to sleep for good.

Allan made a ghillie suit from snow hares he'd snared the first night; lichen and moss were the only scraggly plants growing in that place, so leaves and grass were obviously not an option. All white, he kept to a cave he'd found on the outskirts of the arena. He killed twice, but waited till the feast was over to announce himself to what was left of the Careers. They were weak, and two of the four were wounded. No one here felt bad that he won; no one blamed him for coming back when Helena didn't – she died in the bloodbath. I died when Tephra's baby did. We were going to call her Pyrope.

"Let's start with the ladies, shall we?"

The Mayor must be done already. I look up and try not to show I'm a little weirded out by what I see.

Lysander is wearing a skirt. Ok. I think that's a first; it's made of deep green feathers – that's definitely a first. Feathers must be _so now_ in The Capitol. I grimace, and straighten a little in my chair.

He sweeps over to the big purple bowl full of names belonging to girls eligible in Five, careful all the while not to step on his train. He comes to a graceful stop a foot or so away, smiles his not quite natural smile, and leans forward to – smell the slips?

Oh my god, Lysander.

Allan and I exchange a look before Lysander is done with this year's theatricality. It annoys me to see some kids in the crowd are affected, just like Lysander intended.

"Ampere Ferric!"

* * *

><p><strong>Ampere Ferric<strong>

Female Tribute, District Five

Well, it's now or never.

I swing as hard as I can and hit Absolute smack bang in the face. That she's crying when I should be is what helps me get through the walk to the stage. The clear path of horrified girls all older than me doesn't hurt either. The fact that Lysander looks _ruffled_, sweetens the deal.

I'm pretty sure I'm the first to take the news so well; in my case, it was probably the best thing that could have happened to me today.

Wiping the blood on my washed out once orange now beige dress, I take a moment to turn, and look back through the crowd, searching for the source of the only sounds anyone can hear right now.

Cornelia is trying to comfort her, but by the looks of things, she isn't having much luck.

It should have been her. It should have been her, and she knows it.

"Well, what a heated start to this year's Reaping!" Lysander gathers himself and extends a hand I'm guessing he's hoping I'll take. That he saw what I just did and is trying this is reason enough for me to humour the guy. I take his hand.

"Anything to say to the crowd, Miss. Ferric?"

"Just that I'm not sorry. Oh, and you should probably root for me. If I don't win, you won't get a Victor this year"

"So much confidence! And before I've even selected our young man, goodness gracious – Ampere Ferric, everyone!"

He lets me go with care and walks over to the untouched purple ball to my right.

I'm going to go for the unbothered look; I let my hands hang beside me, and look out into the middle-distance, at nothing in particular. In the beats leading up to Lysander's digging, I make a game of focusing and un-focusing my gaze.

The moment stretches, then pops.

"Laminar Drift!" cries Lysander; probably hoping this pick will be just as dramatic as the first.

* * *

><p><strong>Laminar Drift<strong>

Male Tribute, District Five

My ears are ringing. The ringing is all I can hear.

Then I throw up.

Boyle is the first to get to me, but I can't hear what he's saying. He's shoving a handkerchief in my hand and leading me to the stage before the Peacekeepers can get their hands on me. I have to thank him. I have to thank Boyle.

Where did he go?

No time has passed but I'm at the foot of the stairs with my mouth hanging open, clutching a green stained handkerchief for dear life.

Boyle gave it to me.

Where is he?

And why am I here?

I look up, lock eyes with Lysander, and remember. It all comes crashing down, and it's too bad I can't keep my head up because now the Peacekeepers are well and truly fed up. They rush up to sandwich me, one on each side, and carry me the rest of the way, before dumping me at Lysander's feet.

He looks down, and I look up.

I think his mouth is open too; maybe he'll say something.

He probably won't throw up.

His mouth snaps shut again and he turns away from me, back to the cameras.

"The tributes of District Five!"


End file.
